The Children's Blizzard

by Melanie Benjamin

  But Gerda had deprived her of this. At least there still was Raina.

  Finally, the Andersons asked Mama and Papa to take Gerda home. She overheard them one evening, as the four of them miserably shared a meal. “We can’t keep her here any longer, we have our own place in the community to think of,” Pa Anderson said, not bothering to lower his voice. “She was a good girl, though, at least what we saw. But after this…”

  So the next day, despite the fact that Gerda was still weak with fever from the surgery, still unable to eat more than broth, she was packed up—unceremoniously, like the rest of her clothing and things that were hastily thrown in a carpetbag—and bundled into blankets. It was so strange, she could feel the weight of the blankets on her missing foot, she was certain of it. But she was just as certain that she had only buttoned one shoe, not two. The four-day-long journey back to their homestead was so torturous to her weak, mutilated body she almost bit through her lower lip to hide her screams, tasting blood along with the tears the entire journey. That was when she began to hate Papa, too. For he seemed to go out of the way to hit the bumpiest parts of the trail.

  But she never hated anyone more than she despised herself.

  Over and over, she forced herself to remember her students’ joy when she released them early. Johannes Gerber had thrown his cap in the air with a shout, and actually picked his little brother up in his arms and swung him around until Gerda had to tell him, laughingly, to stop. The way Minna and Ingrid had smiled their secret smile, because they alone would be riding with Teacher and her beau, and Gerda had long known how much that honor meant to them, how they whispered about it in the middle of a circle of gaping admirers at almost every recess.

  And then she would force herself to imagine how lost they must have felt, alone, forsaken by the person in charge of them when they were not at home. Forsaken by Teacher, who was too absorbed in her own plans to understand the growing, growling threat of the storm as it swirled about them all. She had only that last glimpse of them all being swallowed by the greedy cloud. After that, she could only speculate—had they cried? Argued, the three brothers who almost always argued? Had the big children put their arms about the small ones? Had they all called out for their mothers and fathers?

  Had they called out for her? Miss Olsen, what do we do? Where are you? Why did you send us away?

  Finally she was home, back in her own room, still recuperating—it would be a long while, the home doctor told her with a shake of his head. But she would recover, she was strong, she would learn to get by with the crutch or the wooden boot.

  Back home, and from her small room that would only grow more constrictive with each passing year, she heard her parents going about the business of farming in the winter. There were more storms—and the first time she heard the howling wind outside her walls, she sat up and began to shiver, her body automatically reacting just to the thought of being out there again, in that pummeling, knifelike wind. Despite the pile of quilts on top of her, she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

  The livestock was always a worry in the winter—would the hay last until they could graze again? Mama had to bring new chicks into the kitchen, to keep them warm close to the stove. Food would run low—extra low this winter, because she was no longer able to help out with her teacher’s salary, and she was an unexpected mouth to feed. But she had little appetite, anyway.

  No longer did Papa sing his booming songs while he worked. Now, when she heard her parents huddled together by the hearth at night when they thought she was asleep, Gerda knew that they were talking about her. There were sounds of muffled sobs. Of broken prayers. Of wondering, “Why did she do it? What will become of her now?”

  How do you grow old on the prairie?

  Watching your parents fall apart a little every day, and then witnessing them valiantly try to mend themselves again on the morrow, each time losing a stitch or two until they didn’t resemble people so much as rag dolls, the stuffing falling out. Hiding alone in your room with the curtains drawn, ashamed to show your face to the sun. Terrified to behold another human being, unable to bear the look in their eyes—This is her, she’s the one I was telling you about. Remember her? Gerda Olsen? She used to be so proud, that one. And we were proud of her, too, I’ll admit. A shining example, a good teacher.

  Did you hear that she murdered nine children?

  Then one day, the papers from Omaha began to arrive. And just when Gerda thought she could suffer no more—

  She had to read about her sister.

  CHAPTER 30

  •••••

  THE HEROINE OF THE PRAIRIE

  In the midst of such unspeakable horror when words have sometimes failed us, one shining example of Glorious Womanhood has come to light to this reporter. Raina Olsen, a young schoolteacher only sixteen years of age, was one of those quick-thinking pioneer women we herald in song and poem. Unable to keep her pupils safe when the Savage Storm gnashed its teeth and blew in the window of her one-room schoolhouse, she was tasked with getting them all to safety in the middle of the Most Ferocious Blizzard ever recorded in Nebraska. This courageous young woman tied her pupils together using all the little girls’ apron strings and led them to the safety of a nearby farmhouse. The way was full of danger, and all nearly perished while crossing a treacherous bridge over a raging river. But this brave daughter of pioneers managed to get her flock to safety.

  The courage and wisdom displayed by this pretty young woman has touched the hearts of all involved, and she has been the recipient of much gratitude in the tiny community of Newman Grove, where she saved so many young lives.

  Her ambition, she states modestly, is to return to the schoolhouse as soon as it is repaired. A chance to study further, perhaps even at the university in Lincoln, would not be dismissed outright. When asked about plans to marry, the modest young lady blushes and demurs, although there is many a young man in the area who has lost his heart to this Heroine of the Prairie.

  “EXCELLENT WORK, WOODSON,” ROSEWATER SAID with undisguised surprise that rankled. He peered at Gavin over the top of the latest edition. Gavin was seated in the great man’s office, while Forsythe cooled his heels outside. “We were desperate for something like this. We need to keep circulation up, but God Almighty it was getting dreary, day after day some new tragedy. Christ, they all begin to blur together don’t they? Amputations, frozen babies, trains stuck for days with no food, dead farmers, all those children, on and on and on. People get tired of constant bad news, they shut it out after a while, become immune to it. It takes something new to excite them and get them buying papers again. And, by God, man, you’ve done it! This is wonderful. We need to find some other young women—the prettier the better—like this Olsen girl.”

  “We also need to find a way to spin this whole disaster so as not to scare people out of the state.” Jonas Munchin, one of the town’s boosters and thus Gavin’s actual boss, spoke gravely. “The eastern papers are still reporting high casualties—one of them said nearly a thousand have perished. We can’t have that kind of thing reported. There’ve been some angry citizens out here who keep writing to those papers back East with figures that won’t help us at all. Some quack in Dakota said about a hundred died in the southern part of that territory alone. Now, how he can know that, I can’t comprehend—did he go out and count them all himself? Maybe he included some of the Natives on the reservation, but really, who cares about them? Still, the papers are running with those figures. We have to counterattack.”

  “We can do some opinion pieces,” Rosewater mused, drumming his ink-stained fingers on his desk. “To contradict those kinds of figures, talk about the benefits of the storm—you know, how snow is welcome; it means we’re assured a good crop this summer, all that water. Something like that. Something about the freshness of the air after a blizzard, compared to the smoke-filled cities back East—keep th
at kind of thing up. You know what to do, Woodson—that’s what you’re paid for. Forget the facts of the matter, concentrate on the distracting stuff that people want to believe in, like the heroines. I think there’s something in it for you if you do, don’t you, Munchin?”

  “Of course.” Munchin threw his arms open expansively, as if the state’s coffers were his very own to do whatever he wanted with, and that was probably the simple truth, Gavin thought wryly. “All that tragedy was good for a while, but we have to be careful. Whatever the actual death toll is, report only about a third of it, if you even have to do that. Maybe forget the facts entirely and just do those puff opinion pieces—people think those are the news, anyway, especially if they’re printed in a newspaper. And soon enough the eastern newspapers will move on to something else. They sit in judgment back there, they criticize us in the West at every turn, they make fun of us, but what do they really know? They only send someone out here when he’s in disgrace.” And the man looked pointedly at Gavin. “We’re the end of the road, the flophouse, for those eastern elites. They don’t care about us unless something like this happens, then they have a field day at our expense.”

  Gavin actually agreed with Munchin’s point; he just disliked the man himself, and the not-so-subtle disparagement of his own character, which he had to admit was accurate. Or least it had been, until her. His maiden.

  Gavin rose, shook hands, and left the stale office with its cigar smoke, and its smugness that stank just as much. He ignored Forsythe’s questioning glance and stepped outside, inhaling fresh air—although the air in Omaha was not fresh, not like it was out there on the prairie, where it was so pure it stung the nostrils and ignited every sense. Here, even in winter, there was still the stench of the stockyards and the human and animal waste that came when men and horses and pigs and dogs all lived together in one contained area, no matter how large, how growing. How thriving.

  Gavin took another walk, but this time it was to the train depot; the trains were back to running, between storms. He and that nag had had their last communion; he wasn’t going to rent a sleigh again. There were people on the prairie who would take him where he needed to be.

  People, not numbers. Some of them more special to him than others.

  ANOTHER HEROINE DISCOVERED

  Young Minnie Freeman is another of these intrepid maids who managed to save her students against all odds in the Worst Nature Can Imagine. When the soddie that served as a schoolhouse had its roof blown off by the Fury of the Storm, Miss Freeman acted with courage and resolve. Faced with certain Death by Freezing, she—like her fellow Heroine Raina Olsen—tied her pupils together with a length of rope found in the schoolhouse. Then she bravely led her pupils through the storm to safety.

  We at the Bee feel strongly that Raina Olsen and Minnie Freeman should each get a medal, at the least, for their heroism. If not for their acts of bravery, more would have perished. But because of them, the list of casualties is far smaller than is being reported by some newspapers back East. We should honor these young ladies and ensure their future. Donations can be sent c/o the Omaha Daily Bee.

  (Letters to the Omaha Daily Bee)

  Dear Sir,

  I wish to donate to Miss Olsen the sum of three dollars so she can realize her goal of attaining an education. Her story has touched my heart. We need more women like her.

  Dear Sir,

  Please accept one cow, to be given to Miss Raina Olsen for her bravery. She can do what she pleases with the cow, which is a good milk cow.

  Dear Sir,

  I would like to donate two dollars each to Minnie Freeman and Raina Olsen in gratitude for their bravery.

  THE HEROINE FUND

  We at the Bee have been inundated with letters concerning the heroines Minnie Freeman and Raina Olsen. There have been poems and songs written for them. There have been many generous gifts of goods and money, as well, and we continue to urge those who can to contribute to their futures. We have been sent so many gifts in care of these two brave lasses that we have taken the liberty of setting up a fund for them, and we will duly note, in each issue of the Bee, the donor and the amount in a column titled “The Heroine Fund.” You may send all donations c/o the Omaha Daily Bee.

  “More good work, Woodson,” Rosewater said ten days later, with a genuine smile. “The Heroine Fund—brilliant! I think we need one or two more young ladies, though, to truly capture the imagination and keep this thing going. We’re falling off a little, although not too much. People keep donating because they want to see their names in print—that was a hell of an idea, you son of a bitch! One more big story, don’t you think? A tale of woe, someone people can rally around—that’s the very thing we need.”

  Gavin nodded. It was precisely what he’d been waiting to hear; now it was time.

  AN INCREDIBLE STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL’S SUFFERING

  It has come to our attention of the Great Suffering of another victim of the storm, a young girl named Anette Pedersen. This poor unfortunate girl had her life saved due to the bravery of her closest friend, a boy named Fredrik Halvorsan. Young Halvorsan tragically died a hero’s death protecting his little companion. In the worst of the storm, he gallantly covered his young friend with his own coat and other clothing, ensuring her survival by his sacrifice. Anette Pedersen is a girl of just eleven who has been in a household that was forced to take her in after she was abandoned by her own mother. She has suffered an Amputation of the Hand due to frostbite and continues to suffer greatly, although it is now hoped that she will live. We will provide updates of her condition as warranted.

  Dear Sir,

  I would be happy to take in the little girl I read about in your paper, Anette Pedersen. I will give her a good home and all the care she needs. I am a widow with a tender heart and good fortune enough to share, and a nice snug home in Lincoln where she wouldn’t have to do a lick of work, the poor child.

  Dear Sir,

  I am sending a dollar to Anette Pedersen, the little child who has lost a hand. Please make sure it gets to her.

  To the General Public:

  We have added Anette Pedersen to the roll of the Heroine Fund. All donations earmarked for her will go directly to her and she will share, along with the others, any donations that are given without any recipient designated.

  THE HEROINE FUND

  We are pleased to announce that the following Good and Generous citizens have made contributions to the Heroine Fund, originally started here at the Bee:

  Mrs. Charles Wentworth donated $5 to Raina Olsen

  Mr. Reed Garner donated $7 to Minnie Freeman

  Mr. and Mrs. James Farmer donated $2 to Raina Olsen

  The Bastable Boarding School in Lincoln has offered free tuition, room, and board to Anette Pedersen

  Mr. Jacob Pendergrast donated $2 each to Raina Olsen and Minnie Freeman, and sets aside $5 for the education of Anette Pedersen

  The Presbyterian Congregation of Grunby, Nebraska, took up a collection, the sum of which ($10) is to be divided equally between the three heroines

  A former medical officer in the Grand Army of the Republic, who wishes to remain anonymous, donates a custom-made wooden hand to Anette Pedersen once she is recovered

  THE HEROINE FUND UPDATE

  As of this date, it totals nearly $15,000, spread nearly evenly among the three heroines.

  RAINA OLSEN AND HER PUPILS

  Today, February 5, Raina Olsen reopened her schoolroom, the scene of much horror and drama during the Great Blizzard. The Bee sent a photographer out to capture the moment. Pictured is Miss Olsen with most of her students. Since the creation of the Heroine Fund, Miss Olsen has been inundated with many proposals of marriage, although the innocent maid protests, stating that she is too focused on her pupils right now to think of anything else.

  The explo
its of the heroines were picked up by the wire services and ran everywhere, east and west, although it was the Bee that saw the greatest increase in readership because Nebraskans thought of them as their own. Everyone was touched by the girls’ plight; everyone on the prairie was proud of the schoolteachers. The updates on Anette’s health, which continued to improve, were followed as anxiously as the travails of a maiden in a dime novel.

  One woman, in particular, followed those updates, although how she first became aware of them, no one, later, would be able to say. The woman could not read English and wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy a newspaper anyway. Or have access to one. Perhaps a neighbor had braved the weather to alert her to the news of this child. Perhaps someone recognized her name, now forgotten by most—if, indeed, they even knew she had a name—until the girl became famous overnight.

  But this woman got on a mule one day, according to her husband. She told him and her sons that she would be back in a week, perhaps—she was hazy on that, that was what the husband remembered, later. In fact, she’d done some things to make him wonder if she planned on coming back at all—she took her meager wardrobe with her, her one comb that still had a few teeth in it, a tarnished silver spoon she’d brought from the old country. She told him to try and remember to feed the boys, for heaven’s sake. And then she was gone.